“Oh, Seaver! How are you? You are a stranger!” Bertram's voice and handshake were a bit more cordial than they would have been had he not at the moment been feeling so abused and forlorn. In the old days he had liked this Bob Seaver well. Seaver was an artist like himself, and was good company always. But Seaver and his crowd were a little too Bohemian for William's taste; and after Billy came, she, too, had objected to what she called “that horrid Seaver man.” In his heart, Bertram knew that there was good foundation for their objections, so he had avoided Seaver for a time; and for some years, now, the man had been abroad, somewhat to Bertram's relief. To-night, however, Seaver's genial smile and hearty friendliness were like a sudden burst of sunshine on a rainy day—and Bertram detested rainy days. He was feeling now, too, as if he had just had a whole week of them.
“Yes, I am something of a stranger here,” nodded Seaver. “But I tell you what, little old Boston looks mighty good to me, all the same. Come on! You're just the fellow we want. I'm on my way now to the old stamping ground. Come—right about face, old chap, and come with me!”
Bertram shook his head.
“Sorry—but I guess I can't, to-night,” he sighed. Both gesture and words were unhesitating, but the voice carried the discontent of a small boy, who, while the sun is still shining, has been told to come into the house.
“Oh, rats! Yes, you can, too. Come on! Lots of the old crowd will be there—Griggs, Beebe, Jack Jenkins, and Tully. We need you to complete the show.”
“Jack Jenkins? Is he here?” A new eagerness had come into Bertram's voice.
“Sure! He came on from New York last night. Great boy, Jenkins! Just back from Paris fairly covered with medals, you know.”
“Yes, so I hear. I haven't seen him for four years.”
“Better come to-night then.”
“No-o,” began Bertram, with obvious reluctance. “It's already nine o'clock, and—”